all, sir,' says she. 'Well, now?' says he, getting round her back
to the other side. 'Musha, indeed, sir, your coat looks no better
than a withered dock-leaf.' 'Maybe, then,' says he, 'it will be
different now,' and he struck the eye next him with a switch.
Friends, she never saw a glimmer after with that one till the day
of her death.

'Legendary Fictions of the Irish Celts,' by Patrick Kennedy.






A Lost Paradise




In the middle of a great forest there lived a long time ago a
charcoal-burner and his wife. They were both young and handsome
and strong, and when they got married, they thought work would
never fail them. But bad times came, and they grew poorer and
poorer, and the nights in which they went hungry to bed became
more and more frequent.

Now one evening the king of that country was hunting near the
charcoal-burner's hut. As he passed the door, he heard a sound of
sobbing, and being a good-natured man he stopped to listen,
thinking that perhaps he might be able to give some help.